Light Summer, Dark Summer
by maybesomedaysameen
Summary: Root stands on a hill overlooking the ocean, her white dress whipping around her, as she stares out into the sea. Shaw lives on a boat, more rust than metal, thinking about her blood-soaked fingers and listening to the wind that comes over the hill.
1. This Time, They're In Love

There are places where time moves differently. It can race through cities, bouncing off walls and windows, streaking through underground tunnels, gaining speed until years pass by in minutes and progress never stops. It can crawl across prairies, walking beside antelopes, sleeping between wooden planks and lazily swimming in water towers, slow and steady and nothing ever changes.

Here, on this hill, towering above that shoreline, it saturates the air. It stings your eyes like salt, hovers in the sky like the charge of lightning, lingers in the sand waiting for the ocean to sweep it away. Every grain of sand holds a minute and every time the ocean steals one, it gives two back. No one lives here. They stay here.

The people in this hillside town couldn't tell you when they are; they count the time in generations and fishing seasons and influential storms. The stores and houses and barns are pale with wear, old and faded and still. They whisper stories and promises and memories when the wind blows through their splintered walls.

It only takes a blink to get to the ocean from the sign that hangs above the edge of town. Three steps from the sign and the rocky ground becomes sand and you sink. It requires speed, the sandy path, and, when people travel to the shore, they lift their skirts or coats or cloaks and run as fast as they can. The sand that holds minutes pushes them onward, even as it tries to pull them back. The hard water stops the journey with a splash and the cold, crisp shock freezes them in place.

There's a pier that stands proud against the murky water. Where it starts and the sand ends is unclear, but if you know what you're looking for, you can always find it. One step on the boards and it creaks, singing the song of something trapped between land and sea, beckoning you out into the unending waves. Boats come and go, but there is always someone there. Whether they are waiting to leave, or longing to stay, it's impossible to tell, but if you look to the shore, you will find a voyager.

It's a big ocean, the kind that makes you feel small and vast and infinite and finite all at the same time. It stretches out forever and the horizon is fuzzy through a haze of perpetual storms. When you're on the water, on a small fishing boat that is made of rust and respect and godlessness, when there is no hope for home or time for tears, when there is only you and the ocean and the air, it is comforting. The wine-colored water is impossibly dark, crystalline and ravaging.

The steadiness of land, calm and solid and real, doesn't exist on the water and however far you go there will always be a grain of sand to call you back. A lot happens out on the water that can not be accounted for. Sometimes boat disappear, people disappear, time disappears. There is nothing about water that will hold time and when you dip your blood-soaked fingers into the ocean it will clean them and your memories and leave you with nothing.

The woman who lives on the ocean is left with nothing. Nothing, but her boat made of rust, her blood-soaked fingers, and her salt-covered skin. She is lost at sea with no anchor. Years ago, this boat was full of life and fish and money, but then came an influential storm. The town was destroyed, the boat was destroyed, and the life was destroyed. Now, the town is rebuilt, her boat is rebuilt, and her blood-soaked fingers still tie perfect knots.

She doesn't blame herself. It is impossible for her to blame anything, but god and the sea and the frailty of children. She can not feel regret or sadness or loneliness, but they sting her eyes with every salty breeze, begging for her attention. She ignores them and focuses on the beacon on the shore.

From the ocean, it is easy to focus on the hillside town. It is easy to focus on one building in particular. At the top of the hill, there is a large white house, glorious and clean and expanse. It's surrounded by a metal fence that gleams in the sunlight and moonlight and lightning. It is always visible from the sea.

Sometimes, on certain days, there is someone standing in front of the house at the top of the hill. She is always dressed in white, always has her hair down, always staring off toward the ocean, with her toes curled into the grass. The wind loves her, more than it loves the trees or the splintered town walls. It kisses her gently, whipping her hair to side like a flag and blowing her white, linen dress in every direction.

She loves it back. The wind that clings to her brings with it the smell of the ocean and the smell of freedom and the smell of her lover. Here, inside the fence around the house on the hill, she is trapped. This fence is her prison, a cage of wrought iron, that keeps her from the hillside town and her blood-soaked lover on the ocean.

Every day, as her father, dressed in black, opens the fence and begins the treacherous journey down to the hillside town, she considers leaving. She thinks about the great wide somewhere and the feel of rust on her hands, thinks about leaving this house of fear and father of god behind. Every day, when he comes home, removes his white collar and his steel-boned belt, she thinks about the blood-soaked fingers of the woman who wants to love her and wishes she could paint her hands red to match.

He is gone today, away on business, and in his place her ocean lover has arrived, her small, distant body tying her boat to the dock. On the wind, Root can hear the clink of rusty metal against twisted wood, a sweet hello from the ocean to her hill. She takes one last deep breath and turns her back to the fence, returning to her jail of brick and mortar.

She crosses the threshold and the wind tries to follow her inside, its tender tendrils pulling at her hair, but this house is not made from wood and even with an open door, nothing can sneak inside to find her in her father's trap. Nothing, but the creature of heat and salt and tragedy that has promised to try and love her.

Root's feet make no sound on the stairs as she climbs them, stepping past crosses and pictures of dead elders that refused to help her in her youth. She smiles as she remembers the first time she and her blood-soaked tragic lover met. Root had sacrificed her hat to the wind and the ocean, and the ocean and wind had brought it back.

A sharp knock on the door that day had changed her life and as she stood at the top of the stairs, she sent a prayer of thanks to the sea and the salt and the stony hillside. So much had changed since that night. Root had lost her childish face and her faith in god and her useless, worthless virginity. Shaw is her only religion now and one day she will sweep Root away on the sea forever.

Root steps into her bedroom, leaving the door open behind her. She likes to leave Shaw a trail, a clear path into her bed and her body, a standing invitation. Reaching for the laces of her rough linen dress, worn from years of wear, she decides to leave it closed, laced tight, for her lover to undo. Too clear a trail and the fun is gone.

Her room is small, white walls and worn wood floors, a bed pushed into a corner. She'd learned to walk without a sound, but when she sat on the bed, its rusting metal frame always groaned. At night, when it was her and her father and his steel-boned belt, the grating sound was a willing tormenter, burrowing into her head and mocking her screams. When she was with Shaw, the squeak of old springs was a supportive audience, building with her moans and lifting her to her finish.

She lays down, her faded quilt stuffed with secrets and soft beneath her long, brown hair. The view of the ceiling above her pillow is as familiar as the inside of her closet doors and she counts the small spots of mold that shape a constellation of sadness and relief.

The sound of heavy footfalls trying to be quiet drifts into her room with the taste of salt and she rises onto her elbows, breath already quickening with anticipation. Her dark-haired lover stands in the doorway, eyes dark and skin pale with salt. Her boots fall to the ground with thumps and a second later, her socks silently join them. Shaw licks her chapped lips and enters the room, strong forearms bare beneath rolled up sleeves.

There are no words between the two of them as Shaw climbs onto the bed, her damp woolen pants scratching as they slide over sheets, and her knees push up Root's skirt as she moves to kiss her. Her kiss tastes like salt and death and love and damnation. Root knows that if their secret gets out, she is dead. Shaw is dead and Root is dead and they will live forever trapped in this tomb built for an unkind god.

Shaw's tongue pushes into Root's mouth and Root's body melts. Soft, wet heat pools between her legs and Shaw's rough, calloused hands fumble at the laces on her dress. Pulling away, Shaw glares down at the delicate string, face drawn in a scowl and Root laughs, the sound curling between them and lifting Shaw's eyes.

In them, Root sees her tragic lover. In hardened, lines around her eyes, Root sees the future and she runs her long, delicate hands up Shaw's bare forearms, over the fuzzy wool of her overcoat and hooks her fingers into the wide, limp lapels.

"Roll over, handsome lover," Root whispers into Shaw's mouth, guiding her to the side, pushing her down, and climbing on top of her. "I have to take care of my war torn sailor."

Shaw stares up at Root and wonders how so fragile a creature could look into the abyss and see a place of refuge. There is never a moment outside of this bed that Shaw feels real, but when Root helps her struggle out of her coat, when the heavy wool hits the floor with a clumsy thud, when her skin puckers in the cold air, she feels human.

The sensation of Root's hands under her shirt, against her too-rough skin, makes Shaw's eyes roll back in her head and she sucks in air that is not salty enough for her weathered lungs. Root's wet mouth drags along the sensitive skin of her stomach, promising the worst kinds of torture, and Shaw moans into the almost empty room.

Root pushes the cotton that holds her breasts higher on her chest and Shaw lets her eyes drift closed. When she was robbed of her emotions, she was blessed in her physical form and Root's teeth on her breast make her cry out, the metal bed echoing her cries. It is too much, Root's teeth feel too good and her eyes are too kind, and Shaw pushes her away.

Root retreats, her hair and dress wild as she curls into herself back pushed against the wall to which her bed is bolted. Her eyes are scared and, for a moment, Shaw feels like the monster she knows owns this house, but Root's lips turn up and her tongue peeks out and Shaw presses forward, removing the space between them.

Pulling Shaw's shirt off, pulling her bra off, unhooking her soft, cloth belt and forcing her out of her pants, Root whimpers, her heart beating loud enough for Shaw to hear. Root watches as Shaw rips the laces out of her bodice, her legs spread wide, not caring about god or decency or anything, but the need to feel Shaw's fingers inside of her.

Finally, her dress is open, her breasts are bare, and Shaw's mouth is back on hers. Their chests press together, Root's soft and Shaw's firm, and Root's world narrows to their point of contact. Shaw's mouth pushes Root's head to the side, her lips and teeth follow a path to her shoulders and down to her chest.

Root's head hits the wall with a painful smack when Shaw takes a nipple into her mouth. When they live together on the sea, they will never wear clothes. Their skin will turn to leather in the salt and they will make love beneath the stars. Root's body grows hotter and her need grows stronger.

She grabs Shaw's hand and guides it under her dress, pushing her soft cotton undergarments aside, making her intentions clear. Shaw grins at her, leaning close, her face tilting down to linger in front of Root's own. Carefully, her fingers trace their way between Root's legs, making her groan into the still air, her teeth biting her lip and pulling it into her mouth. Her eyes float shut and she gasps.

The cold wall at her back seems to suck her in as she sucks Shaw in and when Shaw's mouth finds her own, Root tries her hardest to open her eyes, but it is all too much and she lets herself drown in the salty ocean of her tragic lover.

Shaw watches Root as she moves, pushing inside of her and curling her fingers. There is no alcohol as intoxicating as the sound and view and feel of Root, in front of her and under her. She runs her free hand across Root's cheek, drags her thumb over Root's mouth, slips inside when Root gasps.

There is only the sound of Root's pants, and whimpers and moans, and the familiar scrape of the metal bed. She removes her hand from Root's mouth, moving it down, gently running her nails over Root's breasts. A bruise peeks around her side and Shaw grinds her teeth together; there will come a day when that failure of a priest that lives in this house would meet the maker whose words he twisted.

Her voice is as rusty as her boat or this bed, but Shaw drops her mouth to Root's head, listens to the growl in her throat. Root's breath hitches and Shaw knows what that means, what the desperate scratch of her voice and the tightening grip of her hands on Shaw's back means.

"I'm going to love you," Shaw's voice rasps, painful with disuse. "I'm going to spend my life trying to love you."

With a scream, torn from the throat of a woman familiar, Root's body convulses. Her toes dig into the sheets under them, her nails break skin on Shaw's back and her breasts push forward. Shaw stays inside of her, keeps her mouth pressed to Root's pulse, lets Root buck against her.

The ocean is a tumultuous mistress and during storms, Shaw thinks of Root and the chaos of her coming undone and, sometimes, Shaw is sure she can hear Root's scream in the deafening crack of thunder. Like sailing out of a storm into still waters, Root's body quiets and calms and settles and Shaw gently releases her grip.

She watches as Root's eyes flutter open, her cheeks red with fever, her lips dark from kissing. She stares at Shaw for a moment, unfocused and uncertain. Shaw waits patiently for the sense to return in Root's face and the ringing in her ears to subside.

Root takes calming breaths, trying to slow her heart and focus on Shaw. She swallows hard, throat rough from use, her body sweating. Another moment and she will be ready. Root licks her lips, tasting the salt from her lover's mouth like a prayer and a promise and a curse, and sighs, happy.

She moves closer, pushing her mouth against Shaw's, ready to take care of her dark-haired, blood-soaked tragic lover. A noise outside of her room makes her freeze and her blood run cold, her body tense, all semblance of peace or freedom or happiness lost.

The front door closes with a loud warning bang and Root shoots off the bed, knocks Shaw to the side, slams her door shut. She spins with panicked eyes, her too small linen dress hanging open at her waist, her legs still shaking from her orgasm, her eyes still not fully focused.

There is nowhere to hide, this room has no windows, and her father is on his way upstairs. He's home early and Root knows this means the time lost at work will be made up for in skin. The closet is Root's evening cage and there is nowhere to hide another body when both doors are open. She stares at Shaw, afraid and certain that their end has come.

Shaw is dressing, her belt clinking as she buckles it over her shirt and Root wonders if she worries about decency in death. They have sinned, as women, as harlots, as denouncers of god. Her father's steps are loud on the stairs, there are no pretenses hidden in the thunk of his boots or the slap of his belt in his hands.

Fully dressed, but for her coat, Shaw approaches her, hands outstretched, fingers nimble as they pull her arms through the linen bodice, as they lace her up, as they hold Root's face between them. Shaw pushes onto her toes and presses a kiss to Root's sweating forehead.

The doorknob rattles against Root's back and Shaw moves to the side, seemingly unafraid. Root whispers a prayer to a god that cannot possibly care and races to her bed, jumping onto the faded, soft sheets, curling into the corner of the room, the bed screaming a reprimand for her sin. She holds her breath as the door creaks open.

Her father is tall, taller than she is, and twice as wide. His eyes are empty, like a lighthouse with no keeper, a mockingly unhelpful artifact. He wields his belt like a whip, the silver buckle almost trailing the floor, still stained with the blood of a thousand beatings. The lifeless holes where his eyes should be sweep the room and Root watches his nose turn up.

It must smell, Root thinks, like salt and sex and freedom, like Shaw's promise to love her, like her desperation to take care of her dark-souled lover. The floor behind him creaks and he turns, Root is too paralyzed to speak, to warn Shaw, to throw herself at the mercy of her jailer, and he sees the woman who has seduced his daughter into sin.

Root waits for him to launch at Shaw, but instead he screams, the deep bass of his voice makes her whole body quake, and he turns back to her. Three steps and he can grab her hair, dragging her off the bed, to the floor, across his feet. Root is screaming, she can't hear it, but she knows, she is screaming in pain and fear and hatred.

His arm rises above his head, the belt buckle swings above Root's face, she reaches out for Shaw's coat on the floor, her hand closing around something cold. She moves and, suddenly, it is wet. Root is soaking wet, like she's standing on the edge of a cliff in the rain, waiting to drown or plummet to her death, and it tastes like metal and fire and hell. She rolls over, pushes herself onto her knees and her hands, something cold in her grip. There is a crash beside her and all she can see is red.

It's blood, she realizes, pouring from her father's throat, and she stares down at his eyes and thinks that there is no difference. A hand tugs her to her feet and arms wrap around her and Root cries with her head thrown back, screams into the constellation on her ceiling. It's over. Her test is over and she isn't sure if she's passed, but she's finally free, fully free, and as she drops Shaw's fishermen's knife to the ground, she smiles.

Her father's blood soaks her dress and her skin and she thinks she must match her blood-soaked lover. Perhaps this is finally a sacrifice the wind and ocean will accept. Shaw pulls away from her, unconcerned about the blood on herself, and looks her over. There is no damage to Root's body, only to her immortal soul, and so Shaw nods, declares it a victory.

She offers a hand, clean and calloused and solid, and Root takes it, laces their fingers together, affirms their promise. Root leads them out of the room, passed Shaw's boots, down the stairs, out the front door. She leaves it open. There is nothing in this house worth stealing.

At the gate, Root hesitates. She has never been beyond this fence, never walked the path to the town, never stepped on the pier. There is no way to jump from the house on the hill to the ocean, though she has dreamed of one many times. Shaw steps around her.

"We have to run," Shaw rasps, voice like salt and sorrow. "The sand will want to keep us."

Root nods and she swallows and she takes a deep breath. "Let's go."

"You don't want to look back?" Shaw asks, already opening the gate, her other hand still tangled in Root's.

"I can't," Root answers in a whisper. "I have wished too long for the sea to turn to salt on a hill."

Shaw doesn't smile, but she leads them out of the gate. They take a deep breath and start running for the ocean.


	2. This Time, They Don't Meet

**Each chapter will start the same and then diverge.**

There are places where time moves differently. It can race through cities, bouncing off walls and windows, streaking through underground tunnels, gaining speed until years pass by in minutes and progress never stops. It can crawl across prairies, walking beside antelopes, sleeping between wooden planks and lazily swimming in water towers, slow and steady and nothing ever changes.

Here, on this hill, towering above that shoreline, it saturates the air. It stings your eyes like salt, hovers in the sky like the charge of lightning, lingers in the sand waiting for the ocean to sweep it away. Every grain of sand holds a minute and every time the ocean steals one, it gives two back. No one lives here. They stay here.

The people in this hillside town couldn't tell you when they are; they count the time in generations and fishing seasons and influential storms. The stores and houses and barns are pale with wear, old and faded and still. They whisper stories and promises and memories when the wind blows through their splintered walls.

It only takes a blink to get to the ocean from the sign that hangs above the edge of town. Three steps from the sign and the rocky ground becomes sand and you sink. It requires speed, the sandy path, and, when people travel to the shore, they lift their skirts or coats or cloaks and run as fast as they can. The sand that holds minutes pushes them onward, even as it tries to pull them back. The hard water stops the journey with a splash and the cold, crisp shock freezes them in place.

There's a pier that stands proud against the murky water. Where it starts and the sand ends is unclear, but if you know what you're looking for, you can always find it. One step on the boards and it creaks, singing the song of something trapped between land and sea, beckoning you out into the unending waves. Boats come and go, but there is always someone there. Whether they are waiting to leave, or longing to stay, it's impossible to tell, but if you look to the shore, you will find a voyager.

It's a big ocean, the kind that makes you feel small and vast and infinite and finite all at the same time. It stretches out forever and the horizon is fuzzy through a haze of perpetual storms. When you're on the water, on a small fishing boat that is made of rust and respect and godlessness, when there is no hope for home or time for tears, when there is only you and the ocean and the air, it is comforting. The wine-colored water is impossibly dark, crystalline and ravaging.

The steadiness of land, calm and solid and real, doesn't exist on the water and however far you go there will always be a grain of sand to call you back. A lot happens out on the water that can not be accounted for. Sometimes boat disappear, people disappear, time disappears. There is nothing about water that will hold time and when you dip your blood-soaked fingers into the ocean it will clean them and your memories and leave you with nothing.

The woman who lives on the ocean is left with nothing. Nothing, but her boat made of rust, her blood-soaked fingers, and her salt-covered skin. She is lost at sea with no anchor. Years ago, this boat was full of life and fish and money, but then came an influential storm. The town was destroyed, the boat was destroyed, and the life was destroyed. Now, the town is rebuilt, her boat is rebuilt, and her blood-soaked fingers still tie perfect knots.

She doesn't blame herself. It is impossible for her to blame anything, but god and the sea and the frailty of children. She can not feel regret or sadness or loneliness, but they sting her eyes with every salty breeze, begging for her attention. She ignores them and focuses on the beacon on the shore.

From the ocean, it is easy to focus on the hillside town. It is easy to focus on one building in particular. At the top of the hill, there is a large white house, glorious and clean and expanse. It's surrounded by a metal fence that gleams in the sunlight and moonlight and lightning. It is always visible from the sea.

Sometimes, on certain days, there is someone standing in front of the house at the top of the hill. She is always dressed in white, always has her hair down, always staring off toward the ocean, with her toes curled into the grass. The wind loves her, more than it loves the trees or the splintered town walls. It kisses her gently, whipping her hair to side like a flag and blowing her white, linen dress in every direction.

From the pier, where she ties her line, anchors herself to the shore, touches her boat and promises to return, she sees the woman at the top of the hill move. The pale hand of the woman whose name she does not know holds something pale above her head, shimmering and flowing in the wind that carries salt and the promise of lightning. When Shaw blinks, the woman is gone, and, for just a moment, she believes in ghosts other than her own, but the shimmer is in the wind and she knows the woman was real.

Her eyes stay fixed on the sheer, long fabric, her feet stay fixed on the warped, wooden pier, and the ghosts of her tragedy stay fixed in her mind. They swirl around her, blowing her hair, asking for apologizes, and whispering their accusations. She knows better than to answer and listens instead to the waves beneath the wood. The ocean asks for nothing, but it will take anything you offer.

It has been several years since her tragedy, many years since she left this hillside town, eternities since she began her life at sea, but the wind born fabric feels like a bullet, sent by her past to destroy her and as the cloth floats higher, she is sure the ghostly woman will be the death of her. Shaw carries with her the deaths of the others and now she stares at the sheer, flowing omen of her own.

A hat, her ghosts whisper in her ears, pushing her hair passed her face, riding the wind that pushes her feet forward. The fabric is a hat, expensive and feminine and too clean for her calloused, blood-soaked fingers. Still, she reaches for it, jumps for it, catches it before it can be blown out to sea. It is a woman's hat.

As her feet reconnect with the steady, weathered wood of the pier, she looks up at the white house on the hill. The woman is still gone, the house is still there, and now the bullet meant for her is clasped gently in her hands. The hat is linen, large and beautiful. A long silken scarf hangs from it, the flowing fabric to which the wind had latched.

She knows who owns this hat. The woman who wears it is not the owner, not of the hat or the house or herself. Shaw knows to whom the woman belongs. This knowledge, and the insistence of her ghosts, their cold hands lifting her feet, tugging on her sleeves, moves her forward. She will return this hat to its owner.

He saved you, her ghosts whisper as her feet take careful steps on the twisted boards, avoid the holes, move around the weak spots. He saved you, bought you this boat, pays for your clothes and your food and your crime. He saved you.

Her eyes blink against the salty air, the breeze stinging them, splashing her face with water from the impending storm, and she pretends that she can cry. He saved her from himself, she thinks to her ghosts. He saved her from himself and he saved her for himself. Now, she brings fish and money to him and he brings his pain to another.

She glances at the house again as the pier and her confidence fade into sand. The land resists her, lets her stay above the surface, move inland towards the hillside town. When she left, she ran, but now she strides forward, calmly, the sand thirsty for incoming voyagers. Her ghosts follow, fingers clinging to her coat, blowing her hair, changing their tune and begging her to turn back. She ignores them, ignores her memories and her pain, thinks only of the brown-haired woman on the hill.

The woman doesn't know her. Shaw was alone in the beginning, living in shadows and stealing to live. The church had found her, the man on the hill had found her, and she had never starved again, but she paid the price in pounds of flesh. She's close enough to read the sign and she wonders again where she came from. The hat is soft in her hand, the wind tries to pull it away, and Shaw wants to be pulled back to the ocean.

The dark, rolling sea knows her secrets; it brought her here and it swears to take her away again. It is dangerous, to live on the sea, but it is freedom and her twice-built boat is home. The church no longer houses orphans, the man no longer beats its wards, and she no longer dreams of death. She has tasted it and come out the other side. The town's sign creaks above her as she passes below.

The wind whistles between buildings and she tries to imagine the woman on the hill. They're similar in age, she knows because the man used to tell her. When Shaw was small, hip high on the looming priest, he would tell her tales of his perfect daughter, compare them to each other. She knows the woman is pale, chaste and beautiful. Shaw wonders if her skin is marred with blood and bruises from his steel-boned belt.

Shaw owes that man her life and livelihood, owes him absolutely everything, but he wasn't there when her boat sank, when her passengers died, when she was left with nothing. The woman on the hill was; she'd watched, and Shaw had felt a kinship with the woman who was her mirror, innocent at birth and broken with time. Shaw loathed and longed for her lovely apparition.

The hat tugs her forward in time, forward to the future and the house on the hill. Her ghosts pull on her sleeves, kick up dust, point out each face in each dirty window. She doesn't come into town, not ever, but today she walks with feigned confidence, carrying the sheer, linen headpiece like a key, and strolls past the church's closed doors without blinking.

These people ignored her in her youth and she ignores them now. The woman on the house would thank her for the hat, perhaps welcome her in, to her house and her bed and her body. Shaw craves comfort like the ocean craves blood and the nameless brunette would owe her for her time.

The thought makes her falter and her next step is a hesitant one. There is no debt when something is freely given and dark thoughts like that have no place inside her vacant soul. She stops short of the swinging goodbye sign, the hillside looming ahead of her, and wonders what a trip to that house will bring. The ground beneath her feet has brought her to the other side of the hillside town in minutes, it is truly as small as a grain of sand, and she sucks in a breath not salty enough for her weathered lungs.

The wind sweeps her clothes around her like a prayer, her ghosts whispering options in her ear, and she begins her climb up the treacherous hill. She would apologize to the woman, she decides, taking careful steps, her ghosts at her back keeping her safe. The pale, brown-haired daughter of an angry god did nothing to earn her perpetual pain.

Shaw had not thought of the woman for a second when she'd made her deal with the devil, taken his money and his boat, taken to the sea. There had been no fleeting thought to where his punishment would land now that she was wrapped in wool and salt and iron. His pale daughter bore the fruits of Shaw's labors and the fruits of her steel-boned loyalty.

When the hat was handed over, and the woman had thanked her, Shaw would ask to come inside, explain the past, stay for tea. Perhaps inside the house, it is quiet; there are no ghosts or storms or howling wind. It was a favor that she was doing and perhaps a favor she was earning. Even blood-soaked tragedies long for safe harbor.

Her foot slips beneath her and she stumbles, the hat falls from her hand, her knees crash to the rocky hillside. She is bleeding, she thinks, her knees are torn open like the side of her boat and a parade of memories slides before her eye. The wind and her ghosts scream in her ears, but the hat lands in front of her, born on some kinder draft. She is grounded again.

A deep, shaky breath taken in brings clarity and Shaw stands, steady once more. She sweeps the hat from the dirt, brushes it off, holds it gently. Ahead of her, the wrought iron gate that serves as her lighthouse gleams in the afternoon sun.

She has arrived at the gate to the house on the hill with bleeding knees and empty soul and stands on the precipice of the cliff and the past. The gate squeaks, loud in the wind, and her ghosts try to push her off the edge, push her to safety, push her to death. Her boots sink into the soft, damp grass as she crosses the threshold and enters the gate in which her ghostly woman is trapped.

Her fist knocks sharply on the front door and she waits with baited breath. This moment will define her future; she will meet the woman on the other side of the world and either sweep her away to the sea or join her in her house of stone. The door unlocks, the knob turns, and Shaw is left facing the result of fate.

The priest looks down at her from his brick and mortar doorway, the house behind him silent and dark. She sees no woman, no glimpse of pale hope, no person to long for, but she sees her tormenter-turned-benefactor and she holds out his hat.

"This came to me," she says, her voice like stone beneath a steel-toed boot, and knows she has made a mistake. "On the wind."

His eyes are empty, hollow and dark, and his hand is withered and blood-stained like hers. The hat is soft in her hands as it is torn from them and her ghosts whisper that this is for the best. A soft thump sounds and she looks past her angry god. Behind the embodiment of holy corruption, at the top of the stairs, framed by white light streaming through a door open like invitation, is a woman, white linen dress hanging open at her waist, deliberately painted black and blue.

Her face is stained with fear and despair and for a moment, for a brief second, for just one, single, impossibly slow heart beart, Shaw considers killing her benefactor, baptizing herself in his blood, and taking the woman from his house and his hands and his bottomless eyes, building a life together on the sea.

Then, she remembers her debt, the ghosts at her back, the oath she has taken to serve this church and this house and this inevitable god. She nods, just once, her eyes blink against a salt-streaked breeze and she turns her back on the house and the man and the woman in white. To help this girl would mean betraying her loyalties and Shaw is nothing if not loyal to those she owes.

The door slams loud behind her, closing the door to a path not taken, and she does not jump because she can not jump. In front of her, the ghosts of her tragedy open the gleaming gate, and she runs for her wooden harbor and rusted boat and blood-soaked ocean home.

When she unties her boat, races off for deep waters, tries to escape her latest wrong choice, a new ghost joins her flock. It stands on the bow, stares back towards the shore and Shaw thinks it is painted black and blue. Its whisper flies on the wind and lands in her ears.

"Thank you for taking me away."


	3. This Time, Root Almost Drowns

There are places where time moves differently. It can race through cities, bouncing off walls and windows, streaking through underground tunnels, gaining speed until years pass by in minutes and progress never stops. It can crawl across prairies, walking beside antelopes, sleeping between wooden planks and lazily swimming in water towers, slow and steady and nothing ever changes.

Here, on this hill, towering above that shoreline, it saturates the air. It stings your eyes like salt, hovers in the sky like the charge of lightning, lingers in the sand waiting for the ocean to sweep it away. Every grain of sand holds a minute and every time the ocean steals one, it gives two back. No one lives here. They stay here.

The people in this hillside town couldn't tell you when they are; they count the time in generations and fishing seasons and influential storms. The stores and houses and barns are pale with wear, old and faded and still. They whisper stories and promises and memories when the wind blows through their splintered walls.

It only takes a blink to get to the ocean from the sign that hangs above the edge of town. Three steps from the sign and the rocky ground becomes sand and you sink. It requires speed, the sandy path, and, when people travel to the shore, they lift their skirts or coats or cloaks and run as fast as they can. The sand that holds minutes pushes them onward, even as it tries to pull them back. The hard water stops the journey with a splash and the cold, crisp shock freezes them in place.

There's a pier that stands proud against the murky water. Where it starts and the sand ends is unclear, but if you know what you're looking for, you can always find it. One step on the boards and it creaks, singing the song of something trapped between land and sea, beckoning you out into the unending waves. Boats come and go, but there is always someone there. Whether they are waiting to leave, or longing to stay, it's impossible to tell, but if you look to the shore, you will find a voyager.

It's a big ocean, the kind that makes you feel small and vast and infinite and finite all at the same time. It stretches out forever and the horizon is fuzzy through a haze of perpetual storms. When you're on the water, on a small fishing boat that is made of rust and respect and godlessness, when there is no hope for home or time for tears, when there is only you and the ocean and the air, it is comforting. The wine-colored water is impossibly dark, crystalline and ravaging.

The steadiness of land, calm and solid and real, doesn't exist on the water and however far you go there will always be a grain of sand to call you back. A lot happens out on the water that can not be accounted for. Sometimes boat disappear, people disappear, time disappears. There is nothing about water that will hold time and when you dip your blood-soaked fingers into the ocean it will clean them and your memories and leave you with nothing.

The woman who lives on the ocean is left with nothing. Nothing, but her boat made of rust, her blood-soaked fingers, and her salt-covered skin. She is lost at sea with no anchor. Years ago, this boat was full of life and fish and money, but then came an influential storm. The town was destroyed, the boat was destroyed, and the life was destroyed. Now, the town is rebuilt, her boat is rebuilt, and her blood-soaked fingers still tie perfect knots.

She doesn't blame herself. It is impossible for her to blame anything, but god and the sea and the frailty of children. She can not feel regret or sadness or loneliness, but they sting her eyes with every salty breeze, begging for her attention. She ignores them and focuses on the beacon on the shore.

From the ocean, it is easy to focus on the hillside town. It is easy to focus on one building in particular. At the top of the hill, there is a large white house, glorious and clean and expanse. It's surrounded by a metal fence that gleams in the sunlight and moonlight and lightning. It is always visible from the sea.

Sometimes, on certain days, there is someone standing in front of the house at the top of the hill. She is always dressed in white, always has her hair down, always staring off toward the ocean, with her toes curled into the grass. The wind loves her, more than it loves the trees or the splintered town walls. It kisses her gently, whipping her hair to side like a flag and blowing her white, linen dress in every direction.

Shaw has not seen the brown-haired flowing woman today. The house looms large against a stormy sky and the wind howls loudly, despairing that it will not kiss its long distance lover before the fall of night. Shaw squints at the sun through salt-dried eyes and knows that if the priest's blithe daughter has not appeared by now, she will not appear until the next sun rises.

Her ghosts beg her to turn around, head for shore, run to the house, save the girl. They have stared at each other for years, but Shaw knows she's too weak and the priest's grip is too strong and the woman is probably too frail. She lingers for one more moment before turning away and crossing the deck, her gloved hand sliding noisily along the railing.

Above her head, faded white letters spell the name of her rusted barge. She doesn't know the story; she wasn't allowed to attend the services her captor of god would preach. The unknown reference hangs above her on the side of her control room. If she ever docked for more than a day, she might go into town and buy fresh paint. She might go into town and ask someone what it meant.

She's been at sea for over a week now, fishing and avoiding the priest and his empty eyes. Sometimes, she strays far enough that the house feels like a distant memory and she wonders if it's real, if she's real, if her ghosts and her tragedy and her twice-built boat is real. Her ghosts tug on her hair and she pushes it up beneath her woolen cap.

The pier is close enough now that she could be docked in an hour, the house just slightly blurred atop its hill. Leaning against the railing, staring off into the horizon, she takes a deep breath, the salt feeling comfortable in her weathered lungs. The wind is sharp and cold and Shaw feels dull and impossible, the slow lapping of the waves against her rust lulling her into a fog, and she pulls her gloves off and her heavy coat off, letting them all fall to the floor with a quiet thump.

That coat belongs to the father she never knew, the only Father she's known told her every night before bed that she'd arrived wrapped in it. He would pull it over her as she lay bloody and beaten on her cot in the corner of the church's barn, whispering a nightly prayer and sliding his steel-boned belt back through its loops. She glances over her shoulder at the house, its white façade mocking her solitude.

Her oldest ghost runs its frozen hand along her arm and she sighs as goosebumps rise. It is hours still until nightfall and she has no task left for the day. Something bumps against her boat and she rises to her toes to lean over the railing. It pushes into her stomach, solid and untrustworthy all at once. Bumping against her boat is a woman, pale and lifeless and achingly familiar. It is the woman who lives in the white house, her brown hair floating around her like a halo, an angel sent by the angry god.

Grabbing a rope from the deck, rough against her calloused hand, Shaw ties it to her railing, praying to no one that the rope holds and the railing holds and her now numb hands hold. She wraps the other end of the rope around her waist, threads it through her belt loops, ignores the memories it dredges up, ties the ends together in front of her.

Her feet find their grip on the highest metal rung and she takes one deep breath before diving off the edge of her rusted home. The wind rushes over her face, her ghosts throw her hat to the sky, and when she hits the water it is shocking and cold and her long, dark hair wraps around her eyes and blinds her. She can't see, the water has knocked the air from her lungs, and she is certain she will join her beautiful counterpart in the depths.

Then, she surfaces, and she sucks in salt water and metal air and pushes her hair from her face. The boat still floats beside her and the woman still floats in front of her, her pale dress sheer from the ocean water. Shaw wraps her rough hands around the woman as gently as possible, drapes her over her shoulder as gently as possible and hoists them upwards.

The woman is limp over her shoulder. She weighs almost nothing, lighter than the ghosts that help them upwards. The rope is rough and frayed in Shaw's hands and the smell of rust and salt and woman is sharp in her nose. A moment passes, her muscles scream, and she has made it to the top of the railing. It takes maneuvering to get back onto solid, swaying ground and Shaw's feet finally hit the floor.

The frail woman lands on the deck ungracefully, her normally flowing dress and hair plastered to her body with freezing water and even the wind can't pry it them from her. Shaw stares down at her, sucking in sharp, stinging breathes, and wonders if the angry god on the hill had sent this girl as payment for his sins.

She kneels reverentially, bowing at the alter of death and sin and reaches an unsteady hand towards the angel. What if she is dead? What then? Would the flicker of hope in Shaw's chest be crushed, a cruel reminder that happiness does not belong in the hearts of the empty?

She presses her ear to the woman's chest, listening for even the whisper of a heartbeat. Her ghosts tell her she should be scared, should be nervous, should be hopeful, but when she hears a weakened flutter from the woman's breast, she feels only the chill of the ocean and the damp linen of the woman's dress.

A moment later, she feels her newfound burden grow. There is a woman on her rusted tragedy, half-drowned and very dangerous. How had she ended up here? Shaw reaches for her coat, pulling it over the woman from the hill, covering her almost naked body. Why were they so close now, after years with miles between them?

Perhaps, she thinks, falling to the side and letting her body relax on the deck, her eyes staring at the woman's pale, unmoving face, perhaps the woman had jumped. The sun had risen to another hopeless day and when the woman stepped out into her cage of iron, she'd had enough. Perhaps the jump had looked possible, a running start and one could land in the ocean.

The jump is not possible. Shaw had spent too many days staring at the house from the pier, she knew the distance between them, felt it keenly with every breath. Her benefactor had never allowed her to climb the hill, she'd never met his daughter, didn't know the girl she's gifted with pain. Now, they are inches apart and Shaw's body is aching to touch her fallen angel.

She scoots closer to her unwitting passenger, letting her knee touch the woman's thigh. This guest of hers is taller than her, long and lean and wistful. From their usual distance, it is impossible to tell how dissimilar they are, but this close, Shaw feels small and unsteady. She should have protected the woman now sprawled across her grimy floor. Above them, the sky grows darker, the sun blocked by thickening clouds.

Perhaps the priest of an angry god had finally gone too far. Shaw reaches out with a gentle hand and runs it along the woman's arm. It is softer than anything she has ever touched in her life and she feels something run through her body that she has never felt before. Her fingers freeze on an almost black bruise.

The priest-turned-tormenter-turned-benefactor had squeezed this angel's arm until it was marred and Shaw doesn't know how to feel about it or feel at all or feel about her part in the pain. She presses her finger into the bruise, eyes fixed on the unmoving face, watches as the rosy, chapped lips part, waits with bate breath. The lips close again, Shaw relaxes, and the woman from the hill looks dead once more.

Her father, their Father, must have gone too far. This woman's head must have hit some holy artifact inside the brick and mortar house and the priest must have feared god's retribution. Shaw has heard about fear, read about it, felt it tickle her throat as a child. Perhaps that's what had happened.

Maybe it wasn't something so tragic, something so domestic and evil and sudden. The woman's chest expands visibly for the first time and Shaw moves backwards, away from the waking ghost. She is still tethered to the railing, still wrapped in splintering rope, still focused on the woman from the hill, and the heels of her boots squeak against the damp, metal deck as she puts distance between them.

Perhaps the woman had run away, finally gathered the courage, raced through the small town, out to the sea. Maybe she'd looked over her shoulder at the white house before diving off the pier and heading for the horizon. Shaw's boat is dark, the sky is stormy, the woman's vision may have been blurred with salt and exhaustion.

What should she do? Shaw watches as the woman's eyes flutter, trying to open, trying to drag their soul out of the darkened depths of death. She licks her lips and tries to reason with herself. Should she take this woman back?

She owes their angry steel-boned owner everything, the boat and her life and the rest of her heartbeats. She owes this woman nothing. This woman was drowning and Shaw pulled her from the water, she is the one in debt, not Shaw. Returning this woman to the priest of an impossible god would lay possibilities at her feet.

Shaw could ask for something from the man, freedom, maybe, or ownership over the soul she isn't sure she has. The angel sucks in a rasping breath and Shaw's mind races. She could take the woman to the first port, lie to their captor, face his wrath. They could leave together, the blood-soaked fisherman and the land-locked sacrifice, make a life on the sea, be together.

They didn't know each other, Shaw remembers, and as the eyes, the pale brown eyes, of her temptation blink open, she can not make up her mind. The woman looks around, sits up, runs her hands over the thick, damp wool of Shaw's former father's coat. Shaw licks her lips, the moisture stinging the cracks and the woman finally turns to face her.

"It's you," the brown-eyed angel whispers, her voice raspy from the screams that echo down to the water almost every night. "The woman who lives on the ocean."

"It's you," Shaw answers, voice raspy from solitude and salt. "The woman who lives on the hill."

These words spark something in the pale-skinned woman, taking her newfound breath from her. She scrambles to her feet, the wet metal deck rising and falling with the ocean's waves, testing her sea legs as she hurries to the unsafe railing. Shaw's father's coat pools on the deck and the priest's daughter stares out to the horizon, taking in the brewing storm and endless, freezing water.

"Did I make it?" she asks the wind. "Am I free?"

The angel turns around and gazes back toward the hill, eyes shimmering as the salty air kiss her hello and dries her flawless skin. Shaw doesn't move, doesn't know what to do, hasn't made up her mind to help or hinder the woman she's cursed with perpetual torment. She licks her lips again, finding comfort in the taste of salt.

"Your-" Shaw tries, the words catching in her throat when the living ghost in front of her turns her head. Her familiar ghosts urge her on, lift her to her feet, push her forward a few steps. "Your father will be looking for you."

Shaw hadn't realized the woman was bright until the light disappears. The sparkle in her eyes that Shaw had assumed was a gift from the wind dies and something sad replaces it. She sweeps the ship with her eyes, their spotlight landing on the faded paint above the control room and she turns back to Shaw, hands gripping her soaking skirts. The woman is trembling, from chill and wind and an emotion that Shaw cannot name.

"Please," the woman yells over a crack of thunder, her sheer dress clinging to her lithe body. "Please don't take me back. I will not live if we touch shore."

Shaw shakes her head, giving the unknown emotion a name – fear. The false priest of an evil god knows no mercy and both the angel from the hill and the ocean tragedy know the end to this drama. A tug at Shaw's chest tells her to take the woman away, sail to a new land, start a new life. A wave rocks the twice-built boat and she remembers who owns her.

"I owe your father a great deal. Your…tragedy is the cost of my freedom. Collateral damage. For this, I apologize. I traded my soul for this ship. Your father keeps me alive and I cannot betray his trust."

The woman scoffs and looks away, her gaze turning to look into the control room and Shaw breathes easier for a moment. She hasn't spoken so many words in years and she isn't sure if they mean what she wants them to, but the brown-haired almost drowned dream seems to understand.

Shaw watches her peer through dirty glass at the steering wheel, the antiquated equipment, the half-finished mural of a woman on a cliffside painted onto the far wall. Glancing at her coat, Shaw's numb fingers itch for her knife, for some semblance of power. She saved this woman and this woman demands another favor.

"You must be Sameen," the woman says. She runs her hand along the glass, walks around the deck, looks up at the faded letters that Sameen has never touched. Along her back runs a jagged scar and Shaw wishes she could kiss it away. "My father speaks about you."

"Does he?" Shaw asks. She hates that she wants to know, but maybe the false god's words hold some answer to the problem of the woman and the sea and her debt.

"He does," the woman confirms. "'Sameen is obedient,' he says. 'Sameen listens. Obeys orders. Does as she's told. She is trustworthy.'"

The words drip with contempt from the woman's rosy lips and Sameen bristles, not because the words are false, but because they are true. Sameen has swallowed her pride, time and again, allowed this fragile woman pain, allowed the empty-eyed man to control her life. He gets his pound of flesh and Sameen keeps her blood and ship.

The angel turns around, her eyes sharp and angry. "'Sameen is pious,' he reminds me, steel-boned belt in hand." She waits for a reaction. The ghosts between them flinch. Shaw does not. "'Sameen is righteous,' he continues. 'She is perfect. Pure.'"

Shaw remembers her blood-soaked fingers and feels anything, but pure. If she had a soul, it would be black, rusted and rotting. She crosses her arms, no response at hand. The wind picks up, lifting Shaw's hair, trying to tug at the woman's dress. It gives up, blowing off to sea and the ship quiets. The angel from the hill, fallen to the sea, rescued on a rusting barge, stands before Shaw, accusing.

"That man loves you," she spits.

A wave splashes over the rail, soaking her and making her gasp. The water kisses Sameen's feet before retreating back to it's tumultuous depths. The woman pushes her hair from her face, tries to unstick her dress, and the distraction gives Sameen some time to think.

If she leaves the woman behind, Shaw can live with herself. She's been living with herself for many years and, by now, she's almost friends with the monster that resides in her bones. The woman's ghost would join her at sea, one more solitary companion.

She knows the priest's words are true. Shaw is trustworthy, returning to the hillside town no matter how far she strays. She is obedient to the empty-eyed priest and pious to his false god. The ocean baptizes her every day, scrubbing her free of her sin and she is born again, almost clean. She is perfect. He loves her.

The woman gives up on drying off and stares at Shaw with tired, dying eyes. How can Shaw dream of love if the one she pines for is dead?

She realizes the fraying rope is still threaded through her belt loops, tying her to this god forsaken ship and she feels trapped to her ocean-bound home. Her numb fingers pull at the knot, trying to free herself if only in this one, small way. The woman's eyes drop to Shaw's fumbling fingers and she sighs.

The noise brushes across Shaw's face, audible even over the approaching storm, and Shaw stops, looks up, hesitates with the end of the rope clutched in her unfeeling fingers. The woman smiles, her head tilting to the look on her face cannot be described by empty souls, but she nods once and meet Shaw's eyes.

"Of course," She breathes, and Shaw knows that tone is bitter. "We haven't discussed the subject of payment."

Shaw is not sure what the woman means until her hands lift and settle onto the laces of her bodice. She starts to untie her knot, revealing what the soaked linen fabric barely hides. Payment, the woman had said, and Shaw knows what she's offering. The woman thinks Shaw wants her own pound of flesh.

For a moment, for several long seconds, Shaw doesn't object. The knot comes loose and an inch of skin is revealed. The woman is offering herself, Shaw thinks, freely and willingly. Hasn't Shaw dreamed of this for years? Didn't she save this woman's life? Doesn't the woman owe her?

The laces slip out of the first set of rings and another inch of skin is bared. Thunder shatters the silence above them and the woman jumps. Shaw does not, her eyes are focused on the woman's collarbones, sharp and pale and wet. She imagines endless nights of passion and company on this terrible journey, a safe harbor on the deadly sea.

Another inch of skin and the swells of her benefactor's daughter's breasts are revealed, three inches of skin bare to the elements. Shaw licks her lips. She wants, she wants to kiss and lick and learn to love, but she knows that something given out of obligation is not given at all. The taste of this woman on her tongue would be sour with fear and Shaw knows she should return her to her hillside home.

The next inch of skin reveals a bruise, black against alabaster skin, and Shaw flinches. Finally, she is rattled. The ship bucks beneath her feet and she slides, off-balance in a new world. Is this who she is? The loyal dog to a priest who beats his children? He loves her, obedient and pious and pure.

The tragic angel is pulling her bodice open and Shaw jumps forward, crushing the woman's hands in a painful grip. Lightning strikes the water near them and Shaw looks into the woman's eyes, glowing in the light. Her hair stands on her arm and Shaw doesn't know if it's from the feel of soft skin or the closeness of death.

"Don't," Shaw growls, releasing the woman's hands and stepping away. "I don't want that. I'll take you away. We'll head East until we hit land."

"Thank you," the woman whispers, the wind whisking the words away to keep them safe. "How can I repay you?"

Shaw doesn't know. She's not sure she deserves repayment. The pale, scared woman is here because of Shaw's freedom and now Shaw is giving that freedom back. She looks to the sky.

"After the storm, there will be repairs. You can help me." She sniffs loudly, pulling herself together and starting for the door that leads inside. "Follow me. I'll show you where I stay. There is only one bedroom, but I can sleep on the floor."

The woman opens her mouth to disagree, to say that she can sleep on the floor, that the woman who leaves on the ocean, Sameen, shouldn't give up her home, but nothing comes out. She stands on the rusting ship that is ready to fall apart and thinks that she feels the same. There is nowhere to call home now, no routine, no torment. Just her, and the ocean, and her newfound savior.

She follows the woman inside the ship. When the door closes with a bang, it is dark. They stand together in silence while their eyes adjust and the small woman who's thrown her life away for unknown harbor just watches her. The fallen woman blinks, exhausted from her trials.

"I'm Root," she says, offering the sailor the only thing she has. "It's not what he named me, but it's my name."

Sameen seems to understand. "I'm Shaw," she says. "I'll teach you to sail."

Root nods and Shaw's eyes linger on her face before turning away. She starts down a groaning metal hallway and Root swallows. She's traded one cage for another and she hopes it's worth it. Her footsteps clatter as she follows Shaw.

Months later, when they've stopped at several ports, when they can almost call each other friends, when they can almost have a full conversation without guilt or anger, they watch the stars together. Root likes to sit on top of the control room, likes to wrap herself in thick blankets and drink hot cocoa under the stars. Shaw likes to be near Root.

One night, when Root opens her blanket and let's Shaw wrap them together, when Sameen opens Root's thermos and pours their drinks into well-loved mugs, when they're both considering holding hands, Shaw asks a question.

"What is the name of my ship? What does it mean?"

"You don't know?" Root asks, surprised. "You can't read?"

"I can," Shaw asserts, "but that word is not one I know. I don't understand it's reference."

Root sips her hot cocoa and looks at the sky, naming constellations in her head and reminding herself that speaking of holy things will not call attention to a god that doesn't exist. She swallows.

"Gethsemane," she says softly, "is where Jesus was betrayed by Judas. Where he waited to be captured and taken to his death."

"Oh," Shaw breathes into her mug. A light breeze dances around them, blowing their hair, but unable to penetrate their nest of blankets. "A fitting name, then. Here we wait for our own destinies and death."

Root smiles, feeling light despite their impending doom. "I'm happy to be part of the story of us. Even if we have a tragic end, we'll have happened. It is more than I had ever dreamed."

"Me too," Shaw hopes she says out loud. "If I were to love…"

"I know, Sameen. I know."


End file.
